Letters
by Rothalion
Summary: Post The Devil's Cartel, Salem reflects upon what he may have lost. Salem receives news from home/Nala after sending letters to folks he cares about telling them that he is safe and has found some peace while he lives out his life alone in self imposed exile after being freed from the Mexican prison. A bit of reflection and regret. This is a stand alone and


_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own or reap any monetary reward from this work of _**Army of Two**_ fan fiction.

 _ **Warnings:**_ Male/Male __relationship mentioned. _Completely_ non-graphic.

 _ **Rating:**_ K

 _ **Original Characters:**_ Vasily Tyannikov, Giddy, Secour, Gabe Benedict, Keegan Braun and Dr. Kennedy are mine.

 _ **Letters**_

Elliot Salem gently pushed the green screen door closed and walked bare footed, balancing a bagel atop an over large bright yellow ceramic coffee mug, to the edge of the steps leading down from his front porch. He sat stiffly on the top step, groaning when both of his knees popped loudly in complaint. Then, after setting the meager breakfast aside, he hunched a bit further down into the corduroy collar of his beige Carhartt chore coat. Summer was slipping away by the day, as fall's chill crept steadily into the brisk, clean Montana mountain air. Shuddering, he wondered, worried if winter's march was also driving away the fragile peace that he'd finally found. The old nightmare, always the same, had awakened him for the first time in several months.

The nightmare was always the same. First, his dream self, would stare, agog, frozen in place and bleeding, just staring at Rios across the room of a Shanghai temple after the man had summarily gut shot him, _sacrificed_ him trying to save seven million innocent Chinese strangers. Then he'd slam awake in a wash of purple-green pain in Mexico beneath the RPG destroyed truck that he'd commandeered trying to rescue Rios and the team. A place where he'd lie trapped and screaming in pain and terror crushed beneath the vehicle's burning wreckage as Trans World Organization's chopper, his company's chopper, Rios' chopper left without him, left him to die…again. Then the flames would part, revealing the same two team members who'd readily abandoned him to those flames five years earlier, and who grinning wickedly handed him, per Rios' orders, to the Mexican Police. It was, the nightmare, a montage of terror, betrayal and unimaginable pain, and he shook his head to clear the cloying effects of its grasp.

Hunched, he finally thought, sipping the strong milk infused brew, starting to and then arresting the impulse to sit up straight. Was he hunched? Two bites of the blueberry bagel later, his fire scarred lips curled into a wry smile, as he chewed. The aging ex-Army Ranger's last trip into Rexford, Montana, his current home town, for a check-up with Dr. Kennedy showed just how hunched he'd become. The time yellowed, plastic measuring tape, stretched along the clinic's pale peach hued wall, from the black and white linoleum tiled floor to the tongue and groove pine ceiling, claimed that he'd shrunken to a paltry five-foot-nine and a quarter inches tall. Salem had requested, ordered actually, a re-read, and after chuckling lightly, Dr. Kennedy obliged the often stubborn sixty-two year old. Again the result, even with him stretching up a bit, was five foot nine and a quarter inches. The shortest, he'd then informed the middle aged doctor, that he'd _ever_ been, as a real adult, was five-nine and three-quarters, and that, Salem further stated, was at the command of SSG Gabe Benedict his old first sergeant in Somalia.

The bagel finished, Elliot blew across the steamy mug and carefully sipped the sweet drink. It was the world making him small. The world and all that it had brought down upon his narrow shoulders. Sure, Doc Kennedy had explained that as folks age they shrink a bit, but Salem knew better. His were shoulders that life had caressed with the burden of endless hardship; the gravity of which had shrunk him down into the husk of a man that he'd become. Husk, Salem further considered while watching his old goose chase after an unruly amber feathered hen, well, might be just a little too severe. He had caught a bit of luck and was, after all, doing alright in this new chapter of his sorted life.

The Mexican authorities had elected to release him after only eight years of a twenty-year sentence, for acting as a lieutenant in one of that country's most ruthless drug cartels. His good behavior and flagging health pushed their hands a bit, but his kindly psychiatrist had explained to Salem that the primary factor in his early release was his inhumane indoctrination into the cartel's ruthless clutches, causing in him to suffer from Stockholm Syndrome. He'd survived, the doctor explained, an RPG blast that left him severely burned, and after his team abandoned him, deep in cartel country, the vicious outlaws captured the gravely wounded man. Then they forced him to exchange his military skill set for medical treatment and years of mismanaged pain medications, ultimately dragging him into their ranks, and down into their depths of depravity.

A compassionate release, the Mexican officials called it. At that recollection, Salem smiled again. There'd been no compassion in Alto Plano prison, only pain, suffering and never ending despair. All of that Salem could manage. The real prison, though, was the prison of his mind, his memory. That was a prison he could not escape from and Alto Plano's solitary confinement cell had provided him with no place to run. It had provided, instead, a deep, dark hole where all he could do was continuously rehash the events that had landed him there, which is precisely what the beleaguered man did. For eight long years, Salem replayed the memories of the botched Mexican operation, Rios' second act of betrayal.

Shanghai, Salem mostly understood. Rios had opted, and Rios was in charge, to sacrifice him to save seven million innocent people from a lunatic. Maybe, Salem thought, that choice had a bit of merit. But Mexico…So for eight long years, he tried to think of a singular excuse that the big mercenary might have for not returning for him after the firefight had gone south. Rescuing people was, after all, T.W.O's forte. Why hadn't Rios rescued him? And for those eight years, only one reason rose to the surface…that Rios no longer had a use for him and having trained the _new_ men to replace him, eliminated him. Then, five years later when they met again, Rios turned his back once more.

So, nearly thirteen years ago, El Diablo, as his fellow cartel soldiers had christened him, walked back across the border into San Diego, scarred and broken wearing his old jeans and a tee shirt, both now baggy after nearly a decade of wasting away. Aside from the singular outfit, Salem possessed one hundred American dollars and his meager possessions confiscated the day that his ex-partner, Tyson Rios, had given him over in a fit of disgust to the Mexican Federales, who after hunting El Diablo for five brutal years, gladly accepted him.

While the hundred dollars seemed insufficient to start a fresh life, Elliot discovered that funds would not be an issue. A quick check, into his banking files, showed that during his five years of cartel action and subsequent incarceration, Rios had maintained his fallen friend's accounts and even invested for him with great success. In short time, Salem re-established himself, purchased a new red, fully loaded 2013 Ford F-250 King's Ranch crew cab truck, installed a matching cab over camper and disappeared into the vast remote west of the country that he'd fought and sacrificed, first as an Army Ranger and then as a Private Military Contractor, a lifetime for. When he was ready, he'd figured he would go to ground someplace quiet and safe, but for a time he'd just rambled about. This ranch was that place and had been home, his first and only real home, for twelve years.

Salem knew that since Rios monitored his accounts the big man was aware of his release, so he'd chosen to stay lost, working diligently to hide his location. Then, as he began to feel a bit human again, his conscience began nagging at him. There were some folks who truly and unconditionally loved him. Maybe, he sometimes liked to think, even missed him. There were folks that hadn't hurt him and they, he'd guiltily realized, deserved a second chance.

The guilt niggled away at him for months threatening to unravel what peace he'd woven for himself and finally, out of despair and desperation, he'd sent out the letters. All bore the same message, written with black ink, in his precise blocky print, and all firmly requesting, that despite their sadness at losing him, he hoped that they were sad, they left him alone until he was fit company.

Elliot sipped the cooling coffee and sighed heavily, noting that the exhalation of shaky breath turned to steam in the stubbornly chilly air. They'd have an early snow, he thought nodding to no one. He'd always been keenly attuned to nature and it hadn't taken him long to adjust and embrace the cycle of seasons, and weather in his new Montana home. After a mental note to order in round bales for his cattle and extra Kerosene, Elliot let his thoughts shift back to the letters, playing the carefully scripted words across his memory. There were, at first, only three, and all identical.

 _Dear -,_

 _I write this to let you know that I am well. I have a home. I can't hear the sea that I always loved so much from it, but instead the howl of winter wind and spring breezes through my Birch forest. My health is as good as can be expected for a broken man. I just wanted you to know. I ask, beg really because after this you will be able to find me, that I be left in this fragile peace that I have found for myself. I'm not a man anymore, not one worthy or fit for human company, anyway. Maybe with time and solitude to heal me, I will be once again someday. I have some folks who care for me here, friends…such a scary word I hesitate to use it but… I love you still and when I get stronger maybe I can allow myself to miss you a bit more. Just now it kills me to do that so… Just know that I am safe._

 _Salem_

The first letter was for Tyson's daughter Nala, now a successful young woman, who Salem cherished like his own child, and oh, how he'd struggled not to add to the wording, to rattle off a litany of apologies and beg for her forgiveness, but he grit his teeth and with bittersweet tears staining the narrow ruled three ring binder paper, he'd stuck to the plan. Then, he penned one for his father in law, the only real father that he'd ever had, Hunter Bathington. He'd become widowed only a few years after marrying the lawyer's daughter and the pair had only recently become close if one could call it that. This letter had proved less emotional, but still, it tore at his heart knowing that he'd probably never see the kind octogenarian again.

The last, to Vasily Tyannikov, proved the most difficult, and the lack of firmness in his printing testified to just how painful the task had been. Vasily, his старый Медведь, his _Old Bear_ , was the one person, the only person who he'd ever professed to love, as something other than a brother, uncle or other relation. Vasily was the only person who he had given himself to in both body and soul, who he'd allowed to make love to him sans any hint of terror or regret. More importantly, though, Vasily had never hurt him.

Rios had stolen Vasily from Elliot, first with his betrayal in Shanghai, and then in Mexico or so Elliot liked to when the dark, cloying curtain of anger, hurt and the need to assign blame shrouded his mangled soul blotting out the truth and the light of forgiveness. Shanghai had been the start of his demise, the same demise that set Rios on a mission to replace him. Shanghai and Rios' betrayal had been the beginning of Salem's end, an end so firmly cast for him that not even the big Russian's love and patience could change his course and in the end, Vasily had walked away.

So, eleven years ago, feeling a profound sense of contentment, Elliot sent his letters. He'd walked all the way, three and a half miles, five klicks, out to the end of his winding gravel driveway, to his battered, tottering, rust flecked gray mailbox. It had been a day much like this day, a cool, brisk, pre-fall morning resplendent beneath a perfectly blue sky, cluttered only by a few wispy, meandering, cotton white clouds. It wasn't the brilliant blue of the water in the caldera beneath his tiny and sorely missed home in Oia, but it was, none the less, a blue bequeathed with an unnatural purity that man's soiled hands could not replicate.

Once there, he opened the box's squeaky door and trembling slid the letters in. Then, after wiping away the tears coursing through two days of graying stubble, with the back of his scarred wrist, Salem held the wobbly box firm on its old galvanized pipe post with his left hand and closed the door with his right. Finally, with a deep shuddering breath, he raised the oxidized sun bleached red flag signaling that mail awaited a pick up.

After setting the near empty cup aside Salem squinted out across the expanse of yellowing meadow that made up the front quadrant of his property. While he couldn't see the old rickety mailbox from the porch, he could see the road leading up to the tidy, quaint ranch style house after it rounded a slight bend. A road, he thought somewhat sadly, that on only very rare occasion clouded up with the wan gray dust stirred skyward by a visitor's truck. Yes, he admitted, sniffling when the pallid breeze wafted up a whirlwind of light dust, it was a lonely life, but it was finally _his_ life.

Elliot stood up carefully unwinding his stiff joints and after retrieving the cup moped back into the house. The warm space still smelled of blueberries and coffee. In his neat yellow, country style kitchen, he refilled the mug, topped it off with cream and stirred the mixture slowly, watching the two liquids swirl about one other before bonding into the sweet comforting drink that he'd grown to love. In his new world, his new life, he no longer required the coal black coffee of the old hard days. There had been occasions; a sick calf, a broken down piece of equipment in need of repair by morning, a storm forcing him to tend the generators, or some other random ranch life emergency requiring him to stay awake, and alert for hours, when he needed to brew the elixir black and strong and having the excuse to do so pleased him. Conversely, though, there had been times when he _just needed_ it the old way; needed to feel the familiar, invigorating, tingly energy that the black brew provided. Those days came about less and less over the years, as he mellowed. Now, life was somewhat sweet and Salem had, after easing into it, finally embraced his new reality.

Back out on his porch, Elliot opened a small, hunter green colored feed box wrought from an old pallet, removed a dented coffee can full of cracked corn and then returned to his perch on the top porch step. The chickens, fully cognizant of the routine, bustled up to the slouched man nipping one another and fluttering for better positions. The old goose waded into the fray and the hens squawked but gave him his rightful place at center court. Elliot sipped the coffee left handed and with a deft, albeit stiff, flick of his right wrist sent the first shower of grain fanning out to his birds. The fidgety flock scattered, all pecking in the short yellowing rye grass for the treasured bits. It was, Salem thought as if they'd not eaten in months, despite him serving them their laying mash just before sunrise. He sent a second hail of feed out and a third, before setting the empty Folgers can aside, and then cracking his neck continued his reminiscing.

Elliot mailed the second set of letters two weeks after the first, care of Rios at Trans World Organization's Georgia headquarters. He'd written Giddy's first. Again the missives contained the same exact wording as the first batch. He could have typed and copied them, but actually writing the request with a pen to paper in his own hand made Salem feel closer to the sentiment that he was desperate to convey.

Through his own intelligence gathering, while working for the cartel as El Diablo, Elliot had learned that Giddy, after fighting bitterly with Rios over the botched handling of the initial Mexican fiasco, that resulted in him being left behind, infuriated that Rios had abandoned their brother to the cartel, and by Rios' lackluster attempts to procure, if nothing else the younger man's remains, Giddy had resigned from T.W.O. He then, took work with Dragon's Breath Arms, for a time, before disappearing, and Salem had no idea where the man had finally landed. He hoped the letter would find him. He hoped that Giddy too had found some semblance of peace.

Heckler, as always, loyal to Rios stayed on, but again, after so long, Elliot couldn't be certain of the man's current address. The internet served no purpose since, for security concerns, none of them ever maintained any form of on-line presence. Secour too had stuck with the company, but again where he lived was a mystery. So, Salem sent the second batch of letters through Rios at T.W.O. It was risky, he knew, but clearing his heart of some of the weight crushing it came first and he'd take that chance. He mailed the final letter straight to Gabe Benedict, outside of Ft. Benning. He owed the old Ranger that much.

Eleven years crawled by in a lonely dirge, for Elliot, and he often laughed at his good fortune, while recalling the old saying: 'Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.' All of them had honored his wishes. They'd left him…alone. He sipped his coffee and stretched out his right leg, rolling his ankle to loosen it up. Murray, their contract writer, and loyal companion flashed to mind and despite the tearing sorrow that recalling her life, her love, and her death in Shanghai caused, Salem smiled. The feisty operator had always claimed that he was an unrepentant, selfish, Passive Aggressive bastard and now, having had time to reflect, the old mercenary knew that her assessment was mostly correct. Sure, he wanted, needed his solitude to heal, but a great part of his heart, a part deep down inside his RPG blast scarred chest, desperately craved that they all had come running to him. Then, three years back, the first return letter arrived in a cloud of dust.

Salem swirled the mug, mixing the contents a bit and reflected back to that day. It had been toward the end of August and Elliot had just finished canning his summer garden crops. He was standing in his kitchen window at the deep apron sink scrubbing the final pans and dishes when a sudden flurry of dust out on the long winding drive caught his eye. He'd taken a quick look at the hardware store calendar hanging on the kitchen wall beside the almond colored princess phone that he'd inherited with the house. That day, the twenty-eighth of August had no notation for a delivery and it was unlikely that the sheriff, who he'd befriended during his first weeks in Rexford, would come out during the week.

After tossing the sponge aside Salem grabbed a towel and after drying his hands moved swiftly to the fireplace and took his Barrett 98B long gun from the rack above the Rose colored granite mantle. Back at the kitchen window, he peered anxiously through the weapon's high-end optics and tracked the cloud of dust with familiar ease. Finally, the breeze shifted and the vehicle popped clear of the road grime cover. The near neon green Dodge truck was immediately recognizable. It belonged to Keegan Braun, the young fellow who passed as the local postman. Salem returned the weapon to its rack and stepped out to meet him.

Braun had slid from the truck and paced toward Salem with his arm outstretched. Elliot recalled the look of concern on the man's normally cheerful face, as well as his strained words. Braun was ex-Army and the two occasionally passed the time in the diner talking about their respective service. They were, Elliot figured, friends.

Salem finished off the coffee and after getting a refill chased his chickens out of the open feed box and sat down, this time in a comfortable deck chair. He sipped his drink, closed his eyes, and let Braun's words bounce round his head.

"It's handwritten, Elliot. You ain't never got one before. So, well I brought it all the way in. It's got _his_ name on it too. Well not _him_ but…"

Salem had taken the small, white envelope from the younger man and studied it. He sipped his coffee again, choked a bit, and coughed to clear his throat. The act of remembering that moment still shot a bolt of terror through his guts. In neat print, the return address read Nala Rios and her address, his old apartment, in Georgia. His first thought was of Tyson, that Tyson was gone, had died and that he'd never be able to set their world right. Keegan had read his concern and offered to stay while he opened it, which Elliot did barely taming the tremors wracking his hands. It wasn't good news, but it wasn't Tyson either. She'd written to tell him that Hunter had passed away, certain that he would want to know, and apologizing for intruding. The letter wished him well and offered their condolences and love. The news, the first other than what he gleaned from skipping around online trolling T.W.O's website and Nala's social media accounts, was the first direct contact the estranged friends had shared in just over two decades. It left him shaken and out of sorts. Then, to his further amazement, Keegan actually returned, after his mail route, bearing gifts of homey diner food, beer, and company, an act of such selflessness that it nearly fractured the ice binding Salem's battered heart. Maybe, he could have friends once again. Maybe, he was becoming human.

Salem shifted a bit in the deck chair and settled back with his crossed ankles on a foot rest. The second letter arrived in a similar swirl of dirt several months later. Again Keegan handed it warily to Elliot and waited patiently for the concerned man to open it. It too was from Nala and held graver news. Heckler was dead, killed during a close protection operation in a country that she couldn't, due to confidentiality, name. A truck bomb, it said. Heck died when a truck bomb detonated at a café where the client had insisted upon going, despite T.W.O's insistent security concerns. A useless death, Salem thought. Again, she sent their love and offered her assistance if he wanted to come for the services. This time, Elliot asked if Braun might be able to come back around, and the young man hugged him tightly promising to return within two hours.

As Salem let the memory slip away, he stared out at the road. It seemed to bare mostly ill news as of late and just two days past he'd fought down panic upon sighting the familiar cloud of dust. It had only been the sheriff though checking on him after the grocery store clerk reported that he'd not made his weekly pick up.

The third letter arrived in the winter. The road was muck, so he'd had no dust devil warning. It would be a year ago in November and if Salem thought the dust cloud played havoc with his nerves, after the third letter he'd learn that the surprise news was far worse. Keegan had pulled in, bundled up from head to foot against the bitter chill. Even the young man now dreaded the news Nala's letters might bring.

Salem shuddered and rolled his shoulders burrowing as far into his coat as possible. The chill air suddenly felt far colder. He really didn't want or need to remember that cold gray day, but he wasn't able to halt the memory's advance through his consciousness either. Resigned to facing the painful recollection once again, he sat up slightly and after digging out his wallet removed the folded three-page, double-sided letter and opened it with reverent care. He'd had to clear everything except his bank cards and driver's license out of the leather tri-fold to make room for the precious document, but he needed to have it close to his heart. He read it several times a week. He slept with it. It was his last thread of contact to unconditional love and a link to the only unblemished kindness that he'd ever known. The envelope, although thicker, just like the first two was from Nala, and inside was a brief note and the longer letter.

' _Uncle Elliot. Dragon One, I have no words. He gave me this for safe keeping. I was to send it when…or if he…please let me come to you, Dragon One! Your Old Bear… is dead.'_

Salem sniffled away the tears that always fell when he held the impeccably scripted Cyrillic covered pages in his wrinkled, time worn, blood soaked hands. It was from Vasily. It was a long rambling goodbye, the goodbye they should have shared as a couple, together, if life, no, he corrected himself, Shanghai, had not blown their nascent relationship apart. The memory continued.

A short time later, he'd come around flat on his back, on his sofa with a frightened Keegan standing over him, a used Amyl Nitrate ampule, from his first aid kit, clutched in his right fist. Once Elliot settled a bit, after a shot of Brandy, he'd read Nala's entire note. He'd died, Nala wrote, defending a Médecins Sans Frontières camp in Macedonia; ironically while there primarily in the capacity of a surgeon, a non-combatant. God shined on him, she'd written, with a quick death, a sniper's headshot, and that Gareth and Vasily's D.B.A. team were taking him home to Osijek, Croatia unless Elliot wanted something different. This time, Braun stayed for a month.

Salem sipped the coffee, gingerly folded the letter back up and replaced it in the wallet. He needed to stop carrying it, or it would succumb to wear and tear. After all, he'd committed his beloved partner's words to memory. Elliot's first instinct, that sorrowful day, was to have Gareth bring Vasily to his ranch and to bury him out under the Willow by his favorite place along the meandering river. But the huge Russian had loved Osijek's ancient Church on Plaça Orfila, in central Sant Andreu. He'd considered the soulful place a bit of heaven on earth. So, Salem said nothing and grieved alone, promising instead to go there to die, or at best for his own burial. Nala, his trustee, would take care of that as per his final requests.

Salem often considered a letter for Tyson, but the ones that he wrote in his mind always degenerated into a wash of feral vitriol. It wasn't, in fact, how he truly felt about the man, which confused him. They'd both made mistakes, both wounded one another, but now, in the twilight of his life, Elliot had no thirst for revenge. Vasily's death had categorically quenched it. If anything, Salem was even closer to just appearing at T.W.O. headquarters and begging Tyson for forgiveness. It was, after all, what he truly craved. Then, he'd snap round and ask 'Ask forgiveness for what?' It was him that Rios had betrayed; thrice betrayed! It was all such a terrifically complex mess, that even time, with its all-powerful healing attributes, seemed unable to correct.

As the sun crept a bit higher in the azure Montana sky, Elliot's porch gained some warmth and although somewhat blue the man took off the beige chore coat and basked in the sun's gift. This was how he passed his days. Aside from the meager chores around the ranch, the aging soldier had bountiful time to relax and just live. Elliot often worried over his regrets, but even that was an emotional exercise slipping away into obscurity. His greatest regret was not allowing Vasily fully into his life much sooner. He'd wasted so many precious years denying their connection, their love and refusing Vasily's pleas that he forget Rios and live his own life. But, time was an unstoppable foe and Salem was gradually settling into what bit of peace he'd managed to create. Regrets needed to be buried and replaced by hope.

Salem awoke several hours later, still reclined in his chair and chilly. The sun's path had cast the porch into deep shadow and a brisk cross breeze whisked away what warmth had lingered. He sat up straight and yawned, rubbing his right index finger's knuckle in his right eye, to worry away what sleepiness remained. As he looked out across his fields, he caught a glimpse of a tuft of dust. How ironic, he thought, a morning spent reminiscing about sad correspondences, and now a visitor. This time, he did not retrieve his gun but instead sat patiently awaiting his fate. If they wanted him dead, they could have him dead. He was too old and too tired to really care all that much. What could he do? He was running out of people to loose and soon he'd be totally alone in the world, abandoned, which was an idea that terrified him, as much as an adult as it had as a child. Smiling, he stood up, wiggled his chilly toes and shrugged back into the coat. At least, he figured, he should have his boots on. So, resolved, he shuffled inside, threw on socks, drew on his worn pull on boots, grabbed a beer and sat back down on his step.

Once the vehicle rounded the bend Salem caught a glimpse of neon green. It was Keegan Braun and despite himself, butterflies chased around his stomach. He chugged the beer and fetched two more from the refrigerator. Keegan pulled up in a cloud of swirling dirt and skidded to a halt. Before Salem could stand the younger man leaped from the truck and bounded up the steps.

"It's from _him_!" He declared huskily, his pale blue eyes bright with excitement.

Elliot reached out and took the envelope, and sure enough, the return address read, Tyson Rios, in Tyson's jagged handwriting. His mind flashed to Nala. Was she alright? Had she been hurt or maybe worse? When he stood frozen in inaction, Braun pressed him.

"Open it, Old Badger! Nala's fine."

That elicited a frown from the stunned man. How did Keegan know that Nala was fine? Salem watched the boy shrug and raised his eyebrows indicating that a reply was in order.

"I, well we, well I started writing and we, she and me and I…we correspond?"

Salem frowned again, slipped his finger carefully along the seal and took out the folded letter. He opened it and Rios' familiar scent carried on the breeze catching in his already tight throat, just as Vasily's had the day he'd opened that letter.

 _Elliot,_

 _Come home Ellie. I have a place for us. It's time._

 _They found a chopper, our chopper, Murray's chopper, in the water off of the Bund. I brought her home. She's at peace now. Just come home. I did like you asked and I waited. I don't care who, or what you might think you are, or what I made you, Ellie, just please come home so that we can all be together again. A team again. I said please. I miss you brother, more than you know. I love you Elliot, more than you know. I never stopped. It's time to rest, brother, so please, please just come home. Hunter left the plantation to you to us. We can go there and just rest. We have Oia; we have the world, Elliot. You, you have Osijek…we earned it. Please, come home._

 _Let me know, I'll meet you at the airport. Please, Ellie, it's time._

 _With Love, Always, 'Your'_ __ _Rios_

Three days later, after settling Keegan in at his ranch as foreman, Elliot strode warily off of a Delta flight into the arrival terminal of Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson airport, barely fighting down his anxiety. The crowded, bustling terminal was cacophonous compared to sleepy Rexford and his quiet ranch. With gritting teeth, he made his way through the mob, grabbed his duffle from the luggage carousel and headed for the gate. As he stepped through, he searched for Tyson. Finally, Elliot saw him and his first instinct was to flee. The huge man, still tightly muscled despite his age, trundled over slowly his gait barely betraying his prosthetic left leg, a result of the failed Mexico mission. Reading the fear in Salem's hazel eyes, Tyson stopped several steps away and held out his thick arms, with his hands palms up, as he dropped to his knees on the crazily colored carpet. To the passing crowd, the action must have seemed like an outlandish proposal, but for the two old friends, the meaning was crystal clear. It was an act of supplication one that they'd played through once before long ago in a shattered country far away in an effort to save Salem's life.

Elliot dropped his bag and crept forward on shuffling feet. He trembled violently and tears obscured his vision. Finally, after placing his left hand on Tyson's right shoulder for support, he knelt stiffly down in front of him. The huge man immediately dragged his lost partner and brother into a crushing embrace. The pair remained entwined, sobbing and rocking for long minutes, with the crowd sluicing around them until Nala finally grasped her father's shoulders and got the duo moving. Then she embraced Elliot and before they could part Tyson engulfed them both in his vast arms.

Seven months on, Elliot slipped through the leaded glass French doors leading onto the broad porch overlooking the sleepy river behind Hunter Bathington's plantation house in Louisiana. He sat wearily down on the top step, breathed in the dew damp, grassy aroma of the broad green lawn and wriggled his bare toes. The rising sun was warm and spending the winter in Louisiana had greatly eased his chronic joint pain. Unfortunately, though, his return to the east had re-awakened past horrors, and still, after six months, he fought to find peace again which reminded him that he was irrevocably broken.

A short time later, the door swished open and the tap of Tyson's left leg, on the polished mahogany decking broke the morning silence. The big man sat down shoulder to shoulder with Elliot and sighed. The younger man had suffered a third violent flashback in four days, followed by a tantrum born of frustration, and now looked drawn and exhausted. Rios wrapped his left arm around his friend's hunched shoulders and squeezed.

"You good?"

"Am now."

Then sighing Elliot leaned heavily into Tyson's welcoming embrace. They needed no other words.


End file.
